


The Body Clock

by cluey (Cluey)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Blood, Johnlock (friendship), Johnlock - Freeform, No Spoilers Regarding Future Chapters Will Be Tagged, Sickfic, Slash, collapse, mystrade, part one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 18:58:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1789699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cluey/pseuds/cluey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Blood streaming, nerves wracking and mind palaces crashing. Sherlock Holmes, possibly the worlds most bizarre murder-loving ‘sociopath’ has inevitably pushed his body to the limit; Sherlock has finally lost himself and fallen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bloody Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Dear Reader,  
> This will be a (long) multi-chaptered fanfic, so if you would like to be updated when I (regularly) release a new chapter, you can hit ‘subscribe’ - or, if you liked this work and you'd like to be notified when I publish a new work altogether, you can subscribe to me under the Author Subscription.  
> Happy reading, guys!  
> -Cluey-x

Sherlock Holmes was sat slumped against the wall of the cold bathroom tiles, his head lolled backwards as he attempted to try and support himself against the toilet seat, holding a bloodied tissue to his nose. His weak fingers feebly pinched the middle of his nose as he tried to stop the steady flow of blood streaming from his nostrils.  
Each time he coughed, the blood fell faster, thicker. He hadn't been punched and his nose wasn't broken, and yet the crimson substance ceased to bring itself to a halt. Such an inconvenience, when the consulting detective could be pouring over recent case files sent by Detective Lestrade from Scotland Yard's home office.  
Pulling the tissue from his nose, Sherlock studied the stained fabric and concluded that there was more blood erupting from his nose than the average person's nosebleed.

Then again, Sherlock Holmes wasn't your ‘average person’.

"Sherlock?" John was back from his shopping trip at Tesco's, having realised that their fridge and cupboards urgently needed a refill, and that there was absolutely no chance that Sherlock himself would restock their shelves of his own accord.

Sherlock quickly shoved the tissue down the toilet, pulled the chain and checked his face for any remaining traces of blood before hurrying out into the living room to confirm his presence to John. The sooner John saw that Sherlock was up and awake and moderately hydrated, the faster Sherlock could escape back to the bathroom; his bloody nose incident wouldn't hold up for long.

"Here, make yourself useful." John nodded at his flatmate as he rummaged around in the shopping bags. "Milk goes in the fridge, this time. Not the cupboard. Eggs - also the fridge. Bread can just go in the baking tin for now.I'll find a place for that later."  
Sherlock leaned restlessly against the doorframe, subtly pinching the bridge of his nose. Why was John being so mundane? He knew that Sherlock despised any activity that involved anything to do with being (even just slightly so) ‘normal’. So, turning his back on John, Sherlock paced back to the bathroom as another trickle of blood leaked from his left nostril, leaving John annoyed and calling out for him to come back.

Sherlock stared at his reflection in the elegant little silver-rimmed bathroom mirror; his eyes appeared slightly dark underneath, his skin a fairer shade of pale than the usual. Poking at his none-rosy cheeks, he noticed the skin seemed tighter. His famously gorgeous cheekbones stuck out proudly on either side of his nose, and beneath, his lips lacked plumpness and colour.  
But that was pretty much how the permanently malnourished man looked like on a day-to-day basis, which often worried Doctor Watson tremendously. Sherlock, however, didn't seem at all fazed by his lack of colour. The only thing he cared about was whether or not he was conscious long enough to make it to the crime scene and complete the case. (Which took a few hard hours of thought, on a good murder).  
Now, that's what really concerned John; the fact that his partner couldn't always stay up and on his feet because he had ‘forgotten’ to eat in the last day - or two. Silly man, couldn't even look after himself.

"Sherlock, you in there?" John shouted, knocking (a little too loud for Sherlock's liking) on the bathroom door. "Let me in a minute?"

Sherlock quickly grabbed and rinsed John's flannel under the cold water tap and held it to his nose for a few seconds, collecting as much nose fluid as possible before slam-dunking the cloth back into the wash basket. "What do you want, John?" His voice sounded out harsher than intended.

"I want to talk to you."

"Hello, I'm here, I'm busy, go away, go see Sarah, leave me alone - talk done."

Sherlock could hear John sighing loudly from the other side of door, and felt guilty for a micro-millisecond. Soft footsteps padded away from the door, until they were no longer audible. A few seconds later, and the front door slammed shut. 

Home alone.

Well, at least the nosebleed had come to a stop - he'd just have to be careful that he didn't cough or sneeze, as that could start it off again - and Sherlock didn't fancy having to sit in the bathroom continuing to catch gore in a torn off piece of Andrex toilet roll for a moment longer. He had a serial killer to catch.

"Right..." he mumbled, opening the door and depositing his tissue down the loo. "...case...". Sherlock Holmes flounced across the living room, eager to begin his work. Sitting down at his desk, he sifted through case files with nervous energy.  
Ten minutes into his mastermind thinking, Sherlock had managed to locate where the serial killer had murdered his last victim - it was all in the shoe prints and the cigarette ash - obviously the killer had done the deed in the secluded space behind the not-so-popular apartments close to the railway line. Why near the railway line? So that not only could he make a quick escape, but also so that he had the chance to scatter the evidence under the wheels of the train along different railway tracks so that it would be crushed and compressed into a pathetic mess.  
Proud of his efforts, Sherlock stood to go and fetch his cigarettes for a quick ‘one-off’ while John wasn't around.

When Sherlock stood, his stomach lurched. His head slowly began to feel both light and heavy at the same time and his line of sight swam unsteadily in front of him. In an attempt to steady himself and refocus, he took a firm hold of the desk, pushing into the table lamp and knocking it off its stand at the same time. A thin line of warmth crawled down over his lips, dripping down his chin; inevitably, the nosebleed was back.  
Sherlock's stomach churned again, this time with an accompanying headache. Not good. Reaching distantly for the landline, Sherlock picked up the phone and pressed 1 - Lestrade was the first on his speed dial, followed by brother and Government Official, Mycroft Holmes, as number 2.

"Lestrade." Greg picked up on the second ring. 

"I, uh-" Sherlock wavered, almost stumbling over his feet. By now his face had turned a ghostly ash white, his usually bright eyes dull. The sticky residue continued to seep mercilessly from, now, both nostrils. "Lest..." Sherlock's eyes flashed wide before his head lolled slightly off to the side, dropping the phone as it slipped through his weak fingers. He managed to stand upright, tall, for barely a second until - too late. Sherlock's knees buckled and his head fell backwards, eyes snapped shut. The detective's dead weight collided roughly with the carpet, his head banging painfully loudly as it clipped the wall.  
Lestrade had apparently heard the crash of body-upon-floor (and a little bit of wall) from the other side of the phone and was now desperately calling the unconscious man's name repeatedly. 

Sherlock couldn't hear him. He couldn't hear anybody. The detective was out cold. Next to his face, forming a clear glossy pool, was his blood; the crimson mess wasn't just flowing from his nose, now, but his mouth too. 

Where's John?

Oh, yes. He's out; because Sherlock had demanded to be left alone.


	2. Struggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's such a stubborn, slurring sociopath - an unconscious one at that. A sociopath whose mind and body is refusing to wake up. A twitch here, a shudder there - and a whole lot of blood on the carpet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took a few hours to write, and chapter three will soon be available. Please leave your ideas for the next chapter in the comments. After all, it's your story - where do you want it to go?  
> -Cluey-x

The door to 221B flung open, and two men stood sweating and panting in the hallway as if they had run a long way. The first man pulled out his phone, punching in three numbers before hitting the green ‘call’ button and rushing back downstairs. The second man, dressed primly in a waistcoat and holding an umbrella at his side (which he promptly dropped upon seeing the unconscious consulting detective lying on the floor) hurried over and quickly knelt down beside his brother, running his hands over his siblings body as he searched for any non-visible injuries. Thankfully, there was no broken ribs or signs of spinal and neck damage. 

"Sherlock." Mycroft swallowed, trying to keep his voice calm. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" The Government Official eyed the dried blood around his brother's nose, taking note of the soaked and stained carpet. "Hey, Sherlock?" Mycroft tapped Sherlock's face lightly with his palm, but as this brought no response, he quickly turned the taps into a full-on stinging slap. 

Sherlock's eyelids moved, his dark lashes fluttering. Mycroft scanned his face, gently cupping Sherlock's face in his hands as he slowly came to. "Come on, Sherlock." Mycroft's voice was soft, but urgent at the same time. He tilted Sherlock's head central, his gaze soon to be facing the ceiling when he awoke, as he was laid flat out on his back. 

"Greg!" Mycroft shouted from the living room. "Greg, get some water!"

Greg Lestrade raced back into the room, shoving his phone back into his pocket. "An ambulance is on its way." He said, before hurrying into the kitchen to grab a pint glass of cold water. 

Sherlock's leg twitched, then his arm, then his leg again. His torso began to shake ever so slightly, like he had the shivers. His head rose half a centimetre before colliding back down on the floor again.  
The twitchy routine continued for barely ten more seconds before Sherlock's body nestled down safely to the floor.  
Mycroft stared, eyes wide, at his brother, his own mouth gaping open. Tears shined in his eyes. What was happening?

Sherlock's lashes fluttered again, this time, however, his eyes sleepily opened and the light in the flat appeared brighter than usual. His stomach felt like it was doing flips, but not as strongly as earlier. Moving his right hand to his forehead so that he could soothe his temples, Sherlock skimmed the bloody carpet with the back of his hand - and it was as if all his recollections from the events that the early morning had brought him came flooding back.  
"John?" He frowned, gazing up at the bleary figure knelt over him. His speech sounded slightly slurred, like he'd been drinking one-too-many pints of cider or glasses of Pimms. Squeezing his eyes back shut, he felt a hand wrap around his wrist.

"Sherlock, it's Mycroft." Lestrade crouched down beside Mycroft, handing him the glass of water. "Now, Greg and I are going to help you sit up, and then you're going to try drinking some water." Lestrade noticed how Mycroft had (purposefully) failed to mention that an ambulance was currently breaking the speed limit somewhere in London in order to come to the foolish man's aid, but not saying anything about hospitals to him was probably for the best.  
Sherlock scowled, but allowed himself to be helped up. Lestrade put the water glass down and wedged his hands firmly under Sherlock's armpits and gently pulled him upright into a sitting position so he could lean against the wall.  
Mycroft's palms once again reached forward and cupped his brother's face, as he leaned in and inspected his complexion, deducing what was right and was was wrong. Obviously, more key points fell under the ‘wrong’ category than they did in the ‘right’. Typical.

"Drink." Mycroft commanded, taking the glass and offering it to Sherlock's lips. Sherlock gratefully accepted the water, taking slow, steady slurps and relished over the fact that his head was gradually beginning to clear. Finally, he could get back on with his work.

"Why-" Sherlock began, thinking carefully about his choice of words before deciding that he didn't particularly care if his brother was offended by what he had to say. "Why are you here?"

Mycroft glanced at Greg. "Greg called me. Said he'd heard a commotion happen down your side of the line. Unsurprisingly, he was right." 

The faint wailing sound of an ambulance drawing closer filled the air. Sherlock groaned, his eyes narrowing. "If that ghastly vehicle with its foul men stop at any point along this street, I swear to God I'll-"

"You'll what?"

"I'll simply send them on their way. I am awake, there is no way that they can take me against my will and, dear brother, I know my rights." Sherlock finished with a cough, although he was proud that he'd sent a wave of confusion to pass over his brother's expression, but also rather narked off that he'd used such a stupid, vague, normal, boring human term of: ‘I know my rights’.

What an obvious, bland phrase.

Mycroft gritted his teeth, staring at the door. The ambulance was now drawing into Baker Street. "You will go to that hospital, and you will get checked out; I will make sure of that. Greg, call John. Tell him to meet us on Ward 92."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading Chapter Two: Struggle! If you did, leave Kudos so I know I'm still doing it right, hit ‘subscribe’ so you're immediately alerted when chapter three is released and leave a comment with your ideas! Thank you so much, readers!  
> -Cluey-x

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked the first chapter, hit ‘subscribe’, leave Kudos so I know I'm on the right track and you liked it, and please leave a comment as to what you want in the next chapter.  
> NOTE TO READER: This fic is based on the feedback and ideas that are left in the comments, so if you have an idea for your ideal fic - leave it below! I will respond to as many of you as I can!  
> Thank you so much!  
> -Cluey-x


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